


Stay With Me

by SherlockWatson_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 02:56:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19432480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/pseuds/SherlockWatson_Holmes
Summary: They thought it was just the flu, but what if it was much worse?





	Stay With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrina/gifts).



> A little ficlet in response to a prompt from my good friend Sandrina, Should have been 1000 words... I got carried away!

At first, Dr. Watson assumed it was nothing more than the flu.

‘I’m dying, John’, Sherlock managed to utter despite his blocked-up nose and sore throat.

‘It’s the flu, drama queen. Take the medication I’ve given you and get some rest.’

‘But my throat, John! I will hardly be able to speak tomorrow’, he croaked.

‘That’ll be a shame, love’, John muttered under his breath, sarcastically.

But Sherlock’s symptoms continued to get worse: the muscle pains that had him lying on the sofa for days, now had him confined to their bed; the headache which made it difficult to think, was now so bad he couldn’t allow John to use anything more than candlelight. John’s exasperation at his boyfriend’s dramatics, turned to serious concern when the detective refused a complicated triple murder case, without a single glance at the file.

‘Ok, now I’m worried. Let me get my kit and check you over.’

The doctor checked his patient’s temperature – 39 degrees. High, but not all that unusual for the flu. He cradled Sherlock’s head in his hands, running a damp cloth over his brow and through his curls. Sherlock smiled up at him, weakly.

‘I warned you not to experiment with all that bloody fungus last week! God knows what you might have inhaled.’

Sherlock tries to look affronted, ‘My experiment was perfectly safe. I’m a scientist, I follow procedure.’

John scoffs but doesn’t answer.

‘It’s just the flu, John.’ His insistence that he’s fine, only serves to worry John more. Especially considering he isn’t very convincing.

‘Okay, love. If you’re sure… Let me make you some more tea, you can take another round of paracetamol and ibuprofen now.’

Sherlock manages a look of disdain at the weak form of pain relief.

Later, he helps him wash as they sit together in a cool bath, the dizziness making it difficult to stand in the shower. Sherlock leans back against his boyfriend, as John runs the cool water over his feverish skin.

‘Let me wash your hair, love. It’ll help cool you down’, he whispers, mindful of Sherlock’s headache.

‘No… Too much’, he taps his head, unable to even manage full sentences anymore.

‘I’ll be gentle, Sher. Let me try. If your temperature hasn’t gone down by morning, I’ll have to take you to the hospital. The paracetamol should have had an effect by now.’

Reluctantly, Sherlock allows John to rinse his hair, using the shower head on the “mist” setting to create less of an impact on his pounding skull.

It’s a difficult night, John holds Sherlock’s hand while he shivers, cold from the bath, despite his high temperature. His headache so intense it brings tears to his eyes.

For two days there is no change, and John has considered taking him to hospital so many times. But Sherlock hates hospitals, and this probably _is_ just the flu. So, he talks himself out of overreacting.

That evening, Sherlock stumbles out of the bathroom while John is making tea, and collapses in the hallway. John rushes to his side; he’s conscious, but barely, and his skin is on fire. John grabs his medical kit from the bathroom and takes his temperature – 41 degrees.

‘Shit, fuck!’ John dials the paramedics with one hand, while tearing off Sherlock’s shirt with the other. He can’t see a rash, but the other symptoms are suddenly unmistakeable.

‘Hello… yes… ambulance, please. I think my boyfriend may have meningitis.’

***

The doctor takes one look at Sherlock’s symptoms and advises John that his preliminary diagnosis is quite likely; though the disease being most common amongst children and university students, and the lack of a rash on Sherlock’s alabaster skin, is a positive sign.

But John was still terrified; the delay in getting his partner to the hospital could be fatal. They both know the other possible outcomes of bacterial meningitis: permanent brain damage, with a wide variety of symptoms, all detrimental to Sherlock’s work; or physical disabilities, which could make the stairs to the flat impossible. He _knew_ this was more than the flu. Why the hell did he listen when Sherlock said he was okay?

A lumbar puncture is ordered to confirm the diagnosis, and various blood samples are taken. Sherlock’s temperature has now reached 42 degrees, despite being on a paracetamol and saline drip. They also give him a general antibiotic in the hope of killing any infection while they are waiting for the test.

Sherlock looks so small and weak, lying in the hospital bed, and John wishes he could kiss him, but he can’t risk catching the infection, too.

‘I can’t lose my mind, John. It’s… who I am.’ His voice is barely above a whisper, breaking with emotion, ‘John… I’m frightened.’

John’s eyes start to sting, ‘Whatever happens, Sher, I’ll be here for you. Always. We’ll get through this together.’

When the doctor returns to perform the lumber puncture, he finds John with his head next to Sherlock’s, holding the man’s limp hand in a vice like grip.

As a consequence of his previous dabbles with pain relievers, Sherlock has found that local anaesthetic is completely ineffective; therefore, he feels every moment of the large needle entering his spine to draw fluid from his spinal column. He doesn’t even try to hold back the tears, as pained sobs wrack his body.

‘Please… John… make them stop.’

That’s when John’s heart breaks. He strokes Sherlock’s hair, whispering nonsense to him, to try and distract him.

When the doctor has eventually finished and left them alone, John climbs into the bed and wraps Sherlock in his arms. For a long time, he simply holds him and lets him cry, trying to remain strong, but as exhaustion pulls Sherlock under, John begs his sleeping form: -

‘Don’t you dare leave me, Sherlock Holmes.’

***

When the sun rises the next morning, Sherlock is still sleeping. He’s shown no improvement overnight and has only managed to speak a handful of words. He stirs slightly as his doctor strides into the room and immediately begins removing IV bags.

‘The antibiotics aren’t working, because this is _not_ a bacterium!’ He smiles broadly, handing the bags to the nurse at his side, and hanging their replacements. ‘This is aseptic meningitis, a type of viral meningitis, thankfully not as serious as the bacterial infections, and very rarely fatal.’

Relief washes over John, and he feels light-headed, ‘Oh, thank god…’ He squeezes Sherlock’s hand tightly, and receives a weak answering squeeze back, telling him that Sherlock is listening. The tears start to form again, though for an entirely different reason. He coughs, self-consciously, and addresses the doctor, ‘Do you have any idea what might have caused it?’

‘Well, a virus is the most common, but as to where Mr. Holmes may have picked that up, I cannot say. Then there are certain microbacteria, or occasionally fungi –’

‘Fungi?’ John asks, not at all surprised. ‘Sherlock…’ He doesn’t say anything more; he doesn’t need to. He can give the idiot the “I told you so” speech, at home.

‘I take it that means something to you?’ The doctor asks.

‘Possibly…’ Sherlock manages to croak, and has the decency to look embarrassed.

‘We’ll need to take some details - it’s easier to treat it if we know exactly what caused it. We’ll start by hitting it hard with an antiviral IV and a course of steroids, along with the paracetamol to keep your fever down. I’ll check on you later, but you should start to improve quite rapidly, and I expect you can go home in a couple of days. You’re lucky to have a doctor on hand to watch over you.’

‘Yes’, he gazes over at John, lovingly, ‘Yes I am.’

***

They’ve been home for three days, and Sherlock is slowly getting back to his usual self; though he’s sleeping a lot more than he used to.

John is working on his blog when Sherlock walks into the kitchen that morning, looking flushed.

‘John…’ He starts, uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Would you really have stood by me if my mind had been… affected? Or if I couldn’t chase criminals over London anymore?’ Sherlock looks down at his feet, uncertain.

‘Of course, I would, you idiot. I love you.’ He says it so simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing on the planet. And maybe it is.

‘John… I… I think you may need to come and check me over for a rash again.’

‘But… you’re fine now, aren’t you?’ John asks, jumping out of his chair.

‘Yes’, Sherlock smirks, ‘But I think you should _check_ , anyway.’ With a wink, he saunters back into the bedroom.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [you should check](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254342) by [Anyawen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen)




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